Tell No Lies (23 page)

He swung his bulldog head back to Daniel. “I thought you knew me better’n that, Counselor.” Turning, he banged through the doors, which swung slowly back and autolocked.

Angelberto let the mop head slap to the tile and resumed his work.

Daniel said, “Thank you.”

“I did nothing. Just cleaning the floor.”

Daniel passed through the now-unmanned metal detectors—nobody was admitted after 9:00
P.M.
—and punched the
DOWN
button of the garage elevator. As he prepared himself for the walk across the dark parking spaces, a new idea struck. He retraced his steps.

“Hey, Angelberto? You’re here a lot, right? And down in the garage?”

The big man nodded.

“That man who just left. Have you ever noticed him drive up on a motorcycle?”

“No. I haven’t seen what he drives.”

Daniel’s thoughts landed next on the only male in the group who had failed to produce a business card. “Do you know a man named Martin? Same build as you, big broad guy, glasses and flannel shirts?”

“Yes, him. I do not like him.”

“Why not?”

“He is rude. Looks down on me because I am a janitor. While he is a felon.”

Martin had never struck Daniel as arrogant in that way. “Have you ever seen if
he
has a motorcycle?”

“Him I
know
drives a car.”

“How do you know?”

“His car battery died Monday night. I had to find jumper cables.”

“Okay, thanks—” A surge of adrenaline cut short Daniel’s words. “What
time
Monday night?”

“After your class let out. I was last one here.”

“How long were you with him?”

“Very late. Midnight at least. Someone had moved jumper cables to maintenance closet on fourth floor, so—”

“You sure about that time?”

“Yes, mostly. It may have been even later.”

Which meant there was no way that Martin could’ve been across town at Marisol Vargas’s house.

One group member ruled out. Five to go.

Invigorated, Daniel thanked Angelberto and headed down to the garage. He climbed into the smart car, locked the door after him, and let himself exhale fully for the first time since he’d entered the building.

“Hi, honey…” The voice from the backseat sent a charge through his blood. In the rearview he saw Dooley lean forward into a fall of light, flipping open her detective’s notepad. “How was your day?”

“You’re not funny.”

“Yeah, but
you
looked pretty funny.” She grinned. “Sorry. Trying to keep a low profile until all your Elvises leave the building.” The radio on her duty belt chirped, and a voice spit code through the static. She listened, then said to Daniel, “Which is
now.
We are clear for the night.”

He shot a breath at the roof.

“How’d it go in there?” she asked.

He filled her in, choosing carefully what was relevant. How Lil and Martin were the only ones who couldn’t produce his business card. Martin’s swearing that it had been stolen from him. Lil’s claim that she thought her husband was still in prison. He left out the near fight in session but told her about Big Mac in the elevator. And finally Martin’s broken-down-car alibi the night of Marisol’s murder.

“That’s great,” Dooley said after he gave her Angelberto’s account. “We’ll keep locking down alibis—or lack of alibis—for the nights of the murders. We’ll downgrade Martin as a suspect, but until we get a better handle on what’s going on, we’ll keep tails on all six group members, just to be safe.”

“You guys are watching them? Right now?”

“For the time being. But there are six of them spread across the city, which is a challenge. And remember—they’re our lead suspects. Not the only ones. We are covering a broader swath than you can imagine.”

“Have you located Lil’s ex?”

“No. But A-Dre’s brother, we know where
he
is. Here in the city. He fits the physical profile, like I said, so we had to free up another unit to keep an eye on him, too.” She jotted a note to herself, then looked up. “Okay. What about the mail room?”

“What
about
the mail room?”

“Any new love letters?”

“I didn’t check.”

“You didn’t check.”

“I had a lot on my mind tonight, Dooley, in case you couldn’t tell. Besides, I thought you said that the guy would’ve figured out by now that he was accidentally sending me the death threats.”

“I’m not talking about
accidentally,
” she said.

He felt a sudden drop in the temperature, the chill biting at his arms through his thin sleeves. She opened her door, and he got out, too, and followed her across the parking lot. They rode up to the desolate lobby in silence, then worked their way through the dark back halls, motion sensors tripping the overhead lights, each bank turning on with an industrial clang as they passed beneath.

Dooley’s breathing quickened, and she kept her hand near the bulge at her hip. She noticed him looking and cracked a smile. “Interiors by Vincent Price.”

They continued with caution, but the worst they saw were a few rats, caught off guard by the sudden flood of light. Eyes glinting like dots of mercury, they dropped their crumbs and went boneless to squeak beneath closed doors.

Dooley gave a cough of relief. “Nice place you got here.”

“Recession budget.”

Finally the mail room came into view. As he stepped through the doorway, his breath caught. There it was, centered neatly in his otherwise empty cubbyhole.

A gray interdepartmental envelope.

Crossing the little room, he heard Dooley’s voice vaguely, as if she were underwater:
Don’t touch it.

He went up on tiptoes to get a better vantage and noticed immediately the cramped, dyslexic handwriting. But one thing was different about this letter.

It was addressed to him.

Chapter 34

i no you saw me daniel brasher but how much did you see me? thats okay. you want to be involved? your part of my crusade now too. go tell molly clarke of sarl ctreet to admit what shes done by november 24 at midnite. or she will bleed. YOU tell her personaly or i will slit her throat first chance I get.

It took everything Daniel had to maintain his composure, to stay calm because calm was useful right now. He read the letter but did not touch it. The sheet of paper, held by a pair of latex gloves beneath an LED crime-scene lantern, put him in mind of a valuable item at auction. Plainclothes cops crowded the tiny mail room; they seemed to have materialized through the walls at Dooley’s radio alert. A multitude of discussions filled the air, making it hard to think.

“—postmark shows it routed through the Bryant Street Annex post office, less than a mile—”

“—could’ve dropped it in any mailbox in the area—”

“—smart move, dodge the cameras—”

“—review the footage anyway in case—”

Theresa put a hand on Daniel’s shoulder and steered him into the corner. “You okay?”

His face felt bloodless, but he nodded.

“Handwriting’s a match with the others. And
not
a match for anyone in your group. But we knew that already.”

“Yeah. We did.”

“Her deadline’s Sunday,” Theresa said. “Two days. But we should go right away.”

A cop strode into the room, raising a hand as if signaling for traffic to stop. “We got a Molly Clarke at 1601 Carl Street, number 312.”

One sentence in particular clawed its way back into Daniel’s thoughts:
You’re part of my crusade now too.

Theresa said, “If you can’t handle this—”

“I can handle it,” Daniel said.

Theresa drew back her head, gave a little nod. “All right, then. Let’s go serve Ms. Clarke her death threat.”

*   *   *

The police convoy rolled presidentially through the crooked streets of Parnassus Heights. Molly Clarke lived somewhere within a stretch of identical, connected town houses, each pale yellow with white trim, the picture of restraint. Daniel climbed out of Theresa’s sedan, found the right porch, and pressed the buzzer for number 312.

Dooley sidled up beside him as he waited impatiently, the other cops forming an arc behind them, adjusting Kevlar vests, checking the slides of their pistols. Daniel could feel the heat coming off all those bodies.

He jabbed again at the buzzer, and Dooley reached out, stilled his arm. “Give her a minute. She’s probably sleeping.”

Across the street a SWAT van eased up to the curb, and Daniel and Dooley glanced over as the squad unpacked from it. The lead man jogged toward them with a battering ram, and Dooley muttered, “Oh, for God’s sake. Boys with their toys. If Clarke doesn’t answer, we can rouse a neighbor before Godzilla-ing another door.”

As the SWAT members joined the crowd on the porch, Daniel turned back and thumbed the buzzer yet again, staring at the circular mesh speaker. His breath clouded in the night chill.

“Excuse me?” Behind them all, at the top of the steps leading from the street to the porch, stood a woman dressed in eggplant-colored nursing scrubs, her fingers twined through a plastic grocery bag. She was barely visible through the phalanx of broad, geared-up torsos. A laminated ID dangled from a lanyard around her neck, red block letters announcing
UCSF MEDICAL CENTER
; she must have just finished a night shift.

The police parted, placing her in sudden isolation, making her seem slight and frail. Her pale, watery eyes glanced tentatively at the line of police cars, then again at the gathering on the porch.

She wiped at her upturned nose with the back of her hand, a scared, childlike gesture. “What are all you guys doing?”

Now Daniel could make out the name on her laminated ID.

He said, “We’re looking for you.”

The grocery bag hit the porch with a slap.

*   *   *

Once SWAT safed Clarke’s condo, Daniel and Theresa broke the news to her as gently as possible. It sent her into a tense perch on the arm of her cat-frayed IKEA couch. Baffled and agitated, she claimed no recognition of the other victims and could think of no overlap with Metro South. With sprays of hair twisting free from her ponytail, one untied sneaker, and overzealous hand gestures, she gave the illusion of a woman barely held together, but once they’d talked through the issue a few times, she settled down onto the couch proper and regained a wry, no-nonsense demeanor more befitting a registered nurse.

An alarm sounded on her watch, and she excused herself to the kitchen, where she stirred some chalky white medicine into a glass of water. She noticed them looking and said, “Twice a day.”

“Cholesterol?” Dooley asked.

“Even better. Hemophiliac.” Clarke chugged down the liquid, grimacing, then placed the glass in the sink. “It’s a new clotting-factor protein they’re testing over in Hematology. No more needle sticks or mixing vials, thank God. It’s still in clinical trials—the job ain’t gonna let me retire young, but I do have access. One of the perks, right?”

Wiping her lips, she came back to them and sat, massaging her knuckles, working each one with a gentle squeeze.

“So you have
no idea
what the letter could be referring to?” Daniel asked for what might have been the fifth time. “No idea what you’re supposed to admit?”

“No idea. This is insane.
Insane.
”

“What departments have you worked in?” Dooley asked.

“I’ve moved around, except for surgery,” Clarke said. “Most of my career I’ve been on the medical floor.” She shook her head. “I’m a
nurse.
I help people. I’ve never intentionally hurt anyone.”

“What about unintentionally?” Dooley asked. “Gave a patient the wrong dose. Screwed up a protocol that—”

“
No.
No, nothing like that. Pull hospital records if you don’t believe me.”

“This isn’t about us not believing you,” Dooley said. “It’s about us trying to help you.”

“I am honestly at a loss.” Clarke took stock of the humble living room, as if searching out solutions in the sparse furnishings. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Honestly?” Dooley said. “If I was you, I’d leave town. The country, even. Sit on a beach somewhere until we nail the guy.”

“You have a suspect?” Clarke asked.

“We have six,” Dooley said. “And counting.”

“Sit on a beach,” Clarke said, amused. “Just
leave.
”

“Yes.”

“And come back when?”

“As I said, when we nail the guy.”

“I’d love to. But I don’t have the luxury.”

“Why not?”

“I miss a lot of work due to … you know, the illness. Some mornings the hemarthrosis—sorry, the joint swelling—is too much. Then there’s a random bleeding episode about once a month. Oh, yeah, nonstop shenanigans around here. So. I’m barely hanging on with my sick days. Some days the pain’s too much, but I have to go in anyways, because … well, because there’s no choice, really. If I get fired, I lose my benefits, which happen to include the best, most cutting-edge health care around. Condition like this, nah, I’d be done.” The dark smudges beneath her eyes looked more pronounced, or maybe it was just the lighting. “So sitting on a beach sipping piña coladas? Not really an option.”

“That’s rough,” Daniel said.

Clarke shrugged. “You do what you have to do.”

“Yeah. But you’re doing it well. And there’s something in that.”

He felt Theresa looking across at him from the adjacent chair, taking his measure.

“Thank you,” Clarke said. “Doesn’t always feel that way.”

“This killer isn’t bluffing,” Dooley said, seemingly to both of them. “This is life or death.”

“So’s keeping my health insurance,” Clarke said.

Daniel rose and walked to the window, which gave a clear view up Hillway into the heart of the medical campus. To the right rose the curved tiers of the parking structure, like the Guggenheim without the flow and elegance. He knew the grounds better than he would have wished. Many a night he’d driven Cristina home from treatment here as she lay curled in the passenger seat, nauseous and clammy, a wisp of herself. His quick rapport with Clarke, he realized, wasn’t just sympathy. He knew something, too, about being up against a wall that felt too steep to scale.